A Place We Don't Have to Feel Unknown
by CamsthiSky
Summary: Collection of batfam prompts from tumblr
1. Chapter 1

**I've gotten tired of trying to post all my prompts as one-shots on ao3 and the like, so for now they're just going to go here.**

 **Anonymous asked: Stephanie and "whose blood is that?"**

 **Thanks to the anon who donated!**

* * *

Stephanie is sitting on the island in Alfred's kitchen at four in the morning when it happens. The lights flip on, Stephanie's head snaps up from the ice cream she's devouring, and Bruce Wayne asks, "Whose blood is that?"

All in all, not a very good way to start her day, Stephanie thinks. Or end it. It _is_ four in the morning, after all, and Steph hasn't really gone to sleep yet. She'd skipped patrol since she'd been exhausted and spent—and considering she doesn't like to half kill herself when she knows she's at her limit like half the crazies in this house do—and all she'd wanted was some ice cream and some peace and quiet in order to _think._

Of course, Bruce just had to ruin that for her.

And then Bruce's question registers with her. She looks down at the front of her shirt. There's blood staining it–old, she knows. From an old gunshot wound that had bled through bandages and her thin shirt while she'd slept, and Steph hadn't bothered to try washing it when she was well enough to move. She knows there's no way it's coming out now. Not unless Alfred's involved, at least.

"Mine," Steph says, shoving another spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream into her mouth. Bruce is still tense, though, so when she swallows, she continues, "Chill. It happened like a bazillion years ago. It was the cleanest shirt I had."

Bruce's face does that weird thing where his emotions try to come out or something, but Stephanie knows for a fact that Bruce doesn't know how to deal with emotions that aren't anger or discontent, so she isn't surprised when a frown is the thing to win the Battle of Feelings.

"Don't hurt yourself," Steph jokes.

"Why are you in my kitchen?" he asks, and then he glances at the clock like he hadn't already known _exactly_ what time it was with his freaky Batman powers—and yes. They were definitely powers. Otherwise, there's no way that Bruce would have known anything about that bruise she'd gotten from the Riddler when Bruce hadn't even known she'd _fought_ the Riddler. Because he'd been shot himself. He was freaky that way.

 _Anyways._ Bruce glances at the clock. And then his frown grows deeper. Oh goody. More feelings. Or more of the same feeling. At least she's got him confused. It's usually on Jason that has the pleasure of baffling the Batman.

"It's four in the morning," Bruce says.

"I know."

"And you're in my kitchen."

"Technically it's more _Alfred's_ kitchen than yours," Steph tells him, stuffing more ice cream in her mouth. It's Dick's ice cream, she remembers, but it's the only thing in the freezer that had looked appealing. She'll buy him a new tub later, if he wants. "And besides, I thought I was welcome here."

"You are," Bruce says, his eyebrows furrowed. Oh look, more emotions. Steph thinks that maybe she should do this more often.

Actually, she thinks back to what led to today's venture for ice cream and sitting in Bruce Wayne's—Alfred's—kitchen, and she doesn't really want to experience that shitty day running around between college classes that ran into one another, assholes who wouldn't know respect even if it hit them straight in the face, and Tim who was working himself ragged again. It had been a tiring day, and she's had enough of those in her life.

"Are you alright?" Bruce asks her.

"Ohhh," Steph says, a smirk playing on her lips. "Was that actual concern from Bruce Wayne I heard?" Bruce shoots her an impressed look, and Steph's smirk falters, and she lets it fall. "Sorry. I didn't mean that. Thanks for letting me crash here."

"Anytime, Stephanie," Bruce says, and then he hesitates, looking a little uncertain. His eyes flick to the ice cream Steph's still eating. "Just make sure you replace that before Dick finds out. He's staying in the manor for the week."

Steph thinks that wasn't what Bruce had been about to say, but she smiles anyway, giving Bruce a sloppy one-handed salute. "Whatever you say, Boss man."

Bruce nods, and then he leaves. The lights stay on. Stephanie eats ice cream. It's odd, she thinks. She still feels exhausted, but she feels a bit more settled than before. Maybe her ex-boyfriend's and current best friend's dad deserves a little more credit than Stephanie gives him.

She definitely won't tell anyone that, but she can think it.


	2. Chapter 2

**anonymous asked: Cam I see that prompts are tentatively open 👀 I know you've got a lot on right now so no pressure to fill this but I love all your fics about Dick's brothers taking care of him so much! I was wondering if we could see a reverse? How does Dick deal with his little brothers when they're sick?**

 **anonymous asked: Prompt: Damian was forced to attend school. He subsequently caught chicken pox from a classmate.**

 **This turned out weirdly fluffy?**

 **Thank you to Atqhdyn for donating**

* * *

"Stop coddling me," Damian snaps, batting at Dick's hand.

Dick suppresses a smile and backs away a step, making sure to give Damian some breathing room. Damian sulks at him from where he's curled up on the bed under his covers, and Dick has the urge to pull them up to his little brother's chin. He doesn't. The hand probably wouldn't survive the attempt.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay by yourself?" Dick asks, looking over Damian over again. "I can stay in here if you want."

Damian glares at him, but the effect is muted by the shadows under his eyes and the fever flush of his cheeks. He looks absolutely miserable, and above the covers, his hands twitch towards his chest where Dick knows there are red spots that must itch like crazy. They aren't really on Damian's face yet, but Dick wonders if that'll change.

"I told you I don't need coddling," Damian tells him, his voice all venom. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Yeah. You are," Dick agrees, settling on the edge of Damian's bed. "But that doesn't mean that you have to. You have people that are willing to look after you now."

"I don't need it." His reply is quick and vicious, but it's soft. Not quite is argumentative.

Dick sighs, running his fingers through Damian's sweat-damp hair and out of his face. It speaks volumes that Damian doesn't smack his hand away again. Only grumbles and turns his head the other way to make sure that he expresses his displeasure.

He'll have to check in every couple hours, then. Give Damian space, but don't let him think he's being abandoned. It'll be a nice balancing act, but those are the kind of challenges Dick succeeds in.

"Make sure you call me or Alfred if you need anything," Dick tells him, face serious. Damian doesn't answer, so Dick grabs a small hand and squeezes it. "I'm serious, Damian. I'll come check on you soon, but if you need me or Alfred, or hell, even Bruce, you text us, okay?"

Damian doesn't answer.

Dick shakes the hand. " _Okay?"_

"Alright," Damian says, but he doesn't sound angry.

Dick decides to press his luck and smacks a kiss on his baby brother's cheek before Damian an push him away. Instead, Dick ends up laughing at Damian's disgusted expression.

"You'll get sick, too!" Damian protests. "I will _not_ be responsible for your irresponsible actions!"

"I've already had chickenpox, kiddo," Dick tells him, still chuckling. "And it isn't likely I'll get them again."

Damian sits up and shoves him off the bed. Dick goes without complaint, a smile still on his face as he steps away.

"Get out of my room, Grayson," Damian tells him. He hesitates a moment, though, so Dick waits him out, raising an eyebrow. Damian finally nods towards the door, sniffing, and says, "I will call Pennyworth or Father if I have any need."

"But not me?"

"I will _not_ be responsible for you falling ill."

Dick laughs again and backs towards the door. "Fine, fine," he says. "I'm going. Feel better, Dami."

And with that he's out the door and heading towards the kitchen. Of course, there's no way he isn't going to poke his head a couple more times today just because Damian forbid him. His little brother's down with the chickenpox and he's going to do his best to make Damian feel better as soon as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**akane566 asked: Hej Cam :) Imagine this: normal day in manor, batfamily and others come for dinner. Out of anywhere Jason, Tim and Damian start argument calling each other "Replacement" and "Wannabe"and everything would be fine but Dick have bad day, like super bad sick day which last already week and he beaten till black and blue by some thugs, so he is tired and have cleary enough so he shout "shut up, you all my replacement!" and everybody just *freeze*?**

 **This isn't exactly what was asked for, because I don't think that Dick would outright call any of his brothers replacement. But here's something that plays on it, a little.**

 **Thanks to Taylor for donating!**

* * *

"Get out of my face, brat."

"Make me."

"I honestly could if I wanted to. Don't try me."

"I will eviscerate you."

"And get yelled at by daddy dearest? I don't think you will."

Today of all days, Dick thinks bitterly. It has to be _today_ that all of his brothers have decided to argue, argue, _argue._ Well—it's more like bickering than arguing, and usually that would be fine, but Dick's had a hell of a day. Hell of a _week,_ and he's only at the manor because he'd passed out on patrol with Bruce and got taken home like a goddamn _child._

Just this once, though, he hadn't had it in him to argue with Bruce, and he'd accepted the house-arrest order without complaint.

Well. Okay, there had been a little complaint, but it hadn't spun into a giant argument about independence and being able to take care of himself like it would have a couple years ago, sick or not.

"And why does the Replacement look like he hasn't slept in seven years?" Jason asks, interrupting Damian's long string of threats.

Tim raises an eyebrow, but doesn't look up from his tablet. "Because I haven't?"

"I'm taking this—"

"Give it back, Jason!" Tim says, hurriedly rising from the couch in order to jump for the stolen tablet Jason's holding up in the air. Honestly, Tim could probably just tackle Jason for it (and he'd probably win depending on how much he wants it back), but he looks too exhausted to try.

"Not until you get some goddamn rest!"

Damian snorts. "Drake has two more tablets in his bedroom."

"Shut up, Damian. I want this one," Tim scowls, still grabbing for Jason's hands. "And I know for a fact that someone _snuck out_ last night, so I wouldn't even be talking right now."

"I did not _sneak out_. I was–"

"Blah, blah, blah. I don't care," Jason cuts in, shoving Tim back onto the couch. "Replacement, get some sleep before you pass out. I don't want to have to drag your ass back here because you passed out from exhaustion."

"Wow," Tim says, his eyes wide with fake surprise. "It almost sounds like you care."

Jason barks a laugh. "Respect your elders, kid."

"Fuck you."

Damian scoffs. "You're such a child, Drake."

"You're like ten," Tim argues.

"I'm thirteen!"

"You're a child until you're eighteen, according to the law," Tim says.

"I am _Robin,"_ Damian grits out. "I refused to be judge by a technicality of that sort."

Jason snorts. "We've all been Robin, kid. Doesn't make you special."

"I am the _superior_ Robin," Damian says. "I could kill all of you in my sleep."

"So could everyone in this room," Tim tells him, his gaze on Damian, even as he stands up and grabs at Jason again. Jason curses, trying to peel Tim off of him. There's a few punches and a lot of hair pulling involved. Dick doesn't think he wants to get involved. "Jason, give it _back!"_

"Go the hell sleep, and I will!"

There's a grunt of pain from Jason, and then Tim's being grabbed and thrown backwards. He lands on the cushions with a sound of surprise, eyes wide while Damian laughs. And of course, that's when Tim looks to Dick, who is resting on the other couch, staring at his brothers as they argue.

He kind of wishes he had the strength to get up and leave the room, because he doesn't like the way Tim's staring at him. His head hurts too much to deal with this right now, and if Tim's going to do what Dick _thinks_ he will—

"Dick!" Tim says, gesturing to Jason. "Help me with this!"

—Dick's not going to be able to stay out of it any longer.

Dick heaves a sigh. "Jason, give Tim his tablet back."

"Hell no," Jason says. "Alfred asked me to make the Replacement go to sleep, and I don't mess with Alfred."

"Then figure something else out," Dick says, irritably. "And leave me out of it."

There's a cacophony of noise to that statement, and Dick has to close his eyes against the severe pounding of his head coupled with his brothers' voices. Tim's yelling and Jason's yelling and Damian's joined in with a couple of threats here and there, and then there's that word being thrown around again. _Replacement._ And Dick _honestly_ can't take it anymore.

He snaps.

"Shut _up!"_ Dick yells, sitting up all the way to glare at the others in the room.

All three shut their mouths in shock. The room goes quiet. Dick pushes himself to his feet, barely keeping himself steady. He feels like he's just gone twelve rounds with Batman. Not Bruce, but the actual goddamn _Batman_ , and he's had it.

Dick looks at Jason. "Figure this out without me. I have the worst headache of my life, and I'm going to sleep. Come get me if you need me, but," he looks at each of his brothers in turn, "I better be your only option."

Damian opens his mouth to speak. "I—"

"Figure. It. Out," Dick tells him. And then he's stumbling out of the room, his chest tight.

He's not good at yelling at his brothers. He hates the feeling that comes every time he loses his temper. But that word being thrown around—

Usually he wouldn't care. It's been too long for him to be upset over, the fact that he's not Robin anymore. That Jason was Robin, and then Tim, and now Damian. He has Nightwing now, and he doesn't necessarily want his old name back. But sometimes on days like today—where his head hurts and he feels so useless, just like he had back then when he'd made a mistake, and sometimes like he stills does. Especially when he's dragged home for something as stupid as an illness making him pass out on patrol—his brothers grate on his nerves. They act like they have no idea what it means to have the name Robin.

Dick's crying by the time he gets to Bruce's study, and he really doesn't understand why. He pushes the door open and leans on the doorjamb. Bruce looks up at the noise, and he's rising to his feet the moment he sees the tears on Dick's cheeks.

"Dick?" Bruce says, and he walks forward slowly. He looks like he's approaching a wounded animal. Dick doesn't move. Not until Bruce is in front of him and gently pulling him into a tight embrace. Dick buries his head in Bruce's chest.

They stand there for a good two or three minutes. Bruce, holding him, and Dick, trying to sob out his feelings into his dad's shirt.

Finally, because Bruce will never ask, Dick pulls back a little and says, "I yelled at them."

"The boys?" Bruce asks, leading them both to the little sofa in the study. He sits down first and pulls Dick to curl up next to him. Dick goes willingly, relaxing under Bruce's fingers stroking up and down his arm. "Were they fighting?"

Dick shrugs. "No more than usual. But I had a headache, and I was already down there sleeping when they came in and started arguing. And they kept—"

Dick cuts himself off, and Bruce doesn't push. They sit there, the two of them for a long time. The room is quiet, cut off from any arguing, and whatever ill will Dick had been feeling towards Bruce from yesterday has seemed to vanish in midair. He's just glad that Bruce is here.

"I'm supposed to be the big brother," Dick says after a while. "I'm supposed to love them and care for them, and play pranks on them, and hug them and give them advice when they need it. I'm supposed to be yelling at them when I'm angry."

"Maybe you wouldn't regularly," Bruce says. "But you're allowed to not be perfect sometimes, Dick. You try, and I think that's enough."

"Sometimes I don't think they want me to," Dick admits, thinking about all the hugs that have been rejected. And then he thinks of Tim's pleading eyes on the other couch as he waited for Dick to fix his problems. "But other times I think that's all they want from me."

Bruce doesn't say anything to that, and Dick thinks that maybe he doesn't know _what_ to say. That's okay, though, because Bruce squeezes him closer and presses a kiss to his forehead. It's enough to let Dick relax into Bruce's hold completely, and eventually fall asleep.

Nothing's solved. He'll have to figure these feelings out later, when he's more equipped to deal with them. But for now, Dick's tired, and he has a headache, and he's sick, and he just wants to sleep.

So he does.


	4. Chapter 4

**wearetakingthehobbitstogallifrey asked: So if you are still accepting prompts, maybe you could write something, maybe a moment when lil Dick Grayson feel safe or at home with or loved by Bruce? I don't care if it's angsty as long as there is some comfort :) See I just read a fic where Dick had been kidnapped by a villain and basically got Stockholm syndrome and ended up adopted by the guy and A. The author seemed to think it was all great? And B. Bruce was made to be a TERRIBLE batdad and I just have a sick taste in my mouth**

 **Thanks to crazysnake19 for donating! Also, I'm so sorry that you read something like that, Monica. I wouldn't be able to handle that. Here's some Dick feeling safe with Bruce around. I hope it makes you feel a bit better!**

* * *

 _"Shit,"_ Dick mutters under his breath, knocking away another attacker. There are dozens of them, all over the warehouse, all out for his blood. And they just _keep coming._ Shit, indeed.

He doesn't know why there are so many. According to heat signatures, the traffic cams Oracle had hacked into, his informants, and his own detective work, there were only supposed to be ten men here to protect the shipment of guns. Instead, Dick's fighting thirty.

He'd planned to call for backup as soon as he'd slipped into the warehouse and seen that he was so outnumbered, or at least cut his losses. He can usually tell when he's in over his head, but he'd been snuck up on, and he'd been forced to show himself.

Dick has taken out ten men before he realized that they were ready for him, and by then, he's too busy to press the button on his comm. to contact the others. He's going to have to hit his suit's panic button.

That's, of course, when he gets hit in the face.

He rolls with the blow, sweeping out the feet of another man, and striking upwards. The man groans in pain, and that's eleven down. He fights like a whirlwind, but in the end, it's not enough. He hits the button. And then someone takes a tire iron to the back of his head.

He drops to the ground.

Still conscious, but just barely, Dick hears murmuring, and then there are hands on him. He doesn't have enough sense to shake them off, and even if he did, he doesn't think he'd have the strength. They're dragging him.

"…rid of him," someone's ordering. "The river…enough…kill him…the evidence."

 _The river._ They're going to throw him into the river.

Dick thrashes, startling whoever's ragging him into dropping him. He tries to roll over, to push himself to his feet, but he gets another blow to the head for his efforts, and he drops back to the floor. Everything's muffled. He can't see anything, voices sound like they're talking to him from a tunnel, and he feels a sort of numbness settle over him.

And then he plunges into the icy depths of the river. He eyes shoot open from the shock of it, and the water engulfs him fully. He's sinking, too cold and disoriented to do more than weakly struggle his way towards what he _thinks_ might be the surface.

His lungs burn. He can't _breathe_. But he has to hold his breath until he gets to the surface. Until he gets air—he can't—he has to—breathe. He has to breathe.

Dick reflexively takes a breath, and water rushes into his lungs. His eyelids flutter, and he finds himself drifting. He can't breathe, he can't cough it up. He doesn't have enough oxygen, and the numbness is settling over him again. This is it.

And then, hands are tugging him upwards, and Dick doesn't fight them. Everything goes dark, and Dick lets it.

The next thing Dick knows, someone is turning him over, and he's coughing up a lungful of water. He coughs and coughs and coughs, until his burning lungs can't take it anymore, and he chokes on his first breath.

"Easy," a voice tells him. A voice he knows That's—

"Bruce," Dick tries to croak, but it's lost to the desperate need to _breathe._

Bruce's hands pull him closer. Dick flops his head onto his dad's shoulder immediately, and Bruce lets him. Kevlar is uncomfortable, but Dick can't find it in him to care. Especially when Bruce's gloved hands tangle in his wet hair and curl around him protectively. And Dick—he doesn't try to move. He just sits there and tries to _breathe._

"You're okay," Bruce murmurs. "You're alright, Dick."

"Names," Dick tries to joke, but it comes out a rasp, and Bruce hushes him, clutching him that much tighter. Dick buries his face into Bruce's shoulder. He's not comfortable, but he doesn't think that there's anywhere else he'd rather be right now.

Finally, Bruce says, "Let's get you home."

Dick's voice is still barely there, but he has enough strength to say, "Yeah."

He still feels shaky, but with Bruce here, helping him to his feet, the numbness isn't quite as prominent. He feels—safe. Bruce leads him to the Batmobile, and it takes a moment, but finally Dick finally settles into the passenger seat, eyes sliding closed in his exhaustion. He lays his head on the window, wrapping his arms around himself, and just lets himself _be._

"Here," Bruce says, and when Dick forces his eyes back open, Bruce is cowl-less and holding out his cape to Dick. Swallowing past a growing lump in his throat, Dick takes the proffered material, and wraps it around himself the best he can. When he falters, Bruce helps him wordlessly.

For some reason, Dick feels like crying.

After a moment of just sitting there, Bruce tells him, "Don't fall asleep yet."

Dick nods and then they're speeding off towards the Cave at high speeds. Dick can feel exhaustion aching in every bone of his body. His head pounds, his lungs and throat still burn with every breath he takes, but he keeps his eye open. He stays awake. Bruce is next to him, Bruce's cape is around him, and they're going home.


	5. Chapter 5

**tantalum-cobalt asked: 93 from that latest prompt list you reblogged with Dick and Bruce on patrol and B thinking something is wrong / Dick is hiding something (injury, illness, whatever) from him. Whether he is or not is to to you :)**

 **anonymous asked: prompt: an untreated head injury leaves robin!dick with bad vertigo and being the stubborn bird he is, he doesn't tell anyone**

 _ **93\. "You've been quiet."**_

 **For tsfennec. Thank you for donating :) Here's some hurt Dick and protective Bruce for you! Also, this prompt has been sitting in my inbox for months, so thank you for being patient.**

* * *

There's something wrong, Bruce thinks.

It's the third time Dick has swayed sideways only to catch himself in just as many hours, and there's been a significant lack of chattering from the eleven-year-old that's perched next to him. Bruce would blame distraction, but Dick's sits still as they watch the building across the street and asks the occasional question about the case.

But, there's no smile, no rambling, no excited whoops that make Bruce secretly smile when Dick's not looking, and no movement.

"Robin," Bruce finds himself saying.

Dick starts and half-turns toward him. Batman is silent for a moment, but he's curious. And he's not going to admit it out loud, but he may also be a little concerned. Dick doesn't do _not moving_ well, and this statue impression he's trying out is grating on some nerves that Bruce doesn't often acknowledge.

"Batman?" Dick asks after Bruce is silent a beat too long.

"You've been quiet," Bruce says.

"Oh." It's apparently all Dick has to say on the subject.

Bruce tries not to grind his teeth. He's not largely successful. "Explain."

Dick freezes—which is a feat, considering he wasn't moving all that much anyways. He looks more like a statue than Bruce could ever manage, and according to both Dick and Alfred on several occasions, that's almost impossible.

 _"You could give a gargoyle a run for its money,"_ Dick has once told him after a particularly long stakeout. _"Maybe we should hold a competition. Alfred can be the judge!"_

Bruce mood sours. His anger and concern skyrocket. There's no cheer left in Dick's demeanor, and Bruce doesn't know what to _do_ about it.

 _"Robin."_ The name comes out a command, even if he hadn't meant it to. But Dick starts moving again, grimacing, and Bruce waits.

Dick looks away. "It's not important to the case."

"Something's wrong." It's not a question.

"No." Dick's shoulder's slump. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice. _Please_ don't send me home. This is the first case we've worked together since you grounded me for fighting."

Bruce doesn't let his face change. "Are you sick?"

"No!" Dick shouts, looking ready to jump forward.

Bruce shifts almost automatically, ready to catch the boy should he come flying at him. It's certainly not the first time it's happened. Dick catches himself, though, and he winces.

He's hurt.

"Where," Bruce growls.

Dick looks absolutely heart-broken. "B, I'm not—"

 _"Where,_ Robin."

Dick's silent a moment more, and then—

"Someone pushed me down the stairs at school from behind," Dick whispers, his eyes settled on the roof beneath them. "I hit my head on the ground. It wasn't hard, but I've been kind of dizzy all day. I thought it would go away by now."

Batman closes his eyes, and he thinks—like he's thought so many times before—that he has no _idea_ what he's doing with this kid. When they're Batman and Robin, it's—well. Not _easy_ , but it's bearable. Bruce feels less unbalanced with the cowl and cape, and Robin standing at his side. He feels in control.

But when it comes to Bruce and Dick, he feels clueless. Like he's stumbling. Dick's a naturally energetic child, and he has friends and a life and interests outside of Robin. He goes to school and he _likes_ it. Bruce doesn't know what to do with this child sometimes. He feels like one misstep will send their life tumbling to the ground and he'll find himself picking up the pieces.

When Dick brings his day life into the night life—because to Dick, it's all _one life—_ Bruce doesn't know what to do. And maybe that's why he lets the cowl dictate his actions.

"Go wait in the car," Bruce says. Dick doesn't move. " _Now."_

Dick scowls at him. "I'm—"

"This isn't a discussion. _Go."_

Of course, Dick doesn't go. He crosses his arms over his chest defensively, and his shoulders tense. He's getting ready for a fight. On a rooftop. In the middle of Crime Alley. On a _stakeout._ And Dick's opens his mouth to argue his case when Bruce hears shouting from the building they were supposed to be watching, the one that hadn't had any movement two moments before, and Bruce acts on instinct.

He dives at Dick and they go rolling across the rooftop, just as the gunshots go off. They come to a stop just out of range of the lower rooftop, Bruce crouching protectively over Dick. The sound of gunfire stops, and Bruce waits one, two, three, four, five seconds before pushing himself off of Dick and looking down at the boy.

For a moment, Bruce's heart stops. Dick doesn't move, and Bruce fumbles— _fumbles_ —to get a glove off, to check for a pulse. It's there, and there's a rise and fall to Dick's chest, but Bruce snaps his fingers in front of Dick's face. Dick doesn't respond.

Bruce scoops him up. They need to get out of here.

The next few moments are a blur to Bruce. He evades the men with the guns—and he'll have to find another opportunity to take them down—and somehow sets Dick in the passenger seat of the Batmobile. He vaults to the other side and speeds off towards the cave.

He's angry. _Beyond_ angry. With Dick. With himself.

But that can come later. Bruce needs to get Dick to Alfred first. Then he can deal with Dick not telling him about being injured.

He steps on it.

* * *

"What were you _thinking?"_

Dick glares at the floor and doesn't respond. Alfred shoots Bruce a look from where he's pressing an icepack to the back of Dick's head. Bruce, for once, doesn't back down. Alfred doesn't, either.

"I think Master Dick has gone through enough headache tonight, don't you think sir?"

"He didn't tell me he was injured," Bruce shoots back. "It put both of us in danger. He was almost killed tonight."

"With all due respect, Master Bruce," Alfred steps in again before Dick can retort, his tone sharp, "I believe it's better if this conversation is held off until Master Dick is coherent to participate fully. Don't you?"

Bruce doesn't say anything. He just spins around on his heel and walks to the computer. He has other problems to deal with right now. Like finding out where the men they were staking out tonight have relocated to. He has a lot of work to do if he wants to stop them anytime soon.

Behind him, Dick doesn't say a word. Not even when Alfred ushers him upstairs to bed.

Bruce tries to ignore the tightening of his chest. It's nothing. He has work to do, and Alfred's right. He'll deal with Dick later.

* * *

Later comes about two hours later.

It's almost three in the morning by the time Bruce gets a lock on the men. He'd followed them with security cameras until he found their new hideout, pulled up the blueprints, and made a new plan to get them off the streets. He'll have to stakeout the new warehouse, too, just in case there's something he missed, but he can handle that.

The next thing he does is hack into Dick's school security cameras, and watches Dick get shoved from behind, barely be able to control his fall so that he doesn't end up with anything worse than a concussion. There are no teachers around, and the students barely pay attention. The only person who helps Dick is Barbara Gordon, the Commissioner's daughter.

Nobody reports the incident, and it's forgotten. They don't call Bruce. The student who pushed Dick down doesn't get in trouble. Bruce has to minimize the screen when his stomach flips.

What would have happened if Dick had been hurt worse? Would anyone have told him?

"Bruce?"

Bruce doesn't turn around, but his shoulders fall, and sighing is a close thing.

"You're not asleep, are you?" Dick asks, peeking around the chair. He looks—better. Some of Bruce's tension falls away when he meets Dick's blue eyes.

"No," Bruce breaths out. "But you should be."

Dick frowns. "I had a nightmare."

Bruce holds his arms open, and Dick doesn't hesitate to scramble into his lap and wrap his small arms around Bruce's neck, hold just shy of choking him. Bruce curls an arm around his son's back and pulls him closer. Dick buries his face in Bruce's chest.

"Sorry for not telling you," Dick mumbles, his voice muffled. "I don't know why I didn't."

Bruce hums. "Don't do it again, chum. We do dangerous things, and every mistake could be—"

"—your last," Dick finishes. "I know. I was just—scared, I think. That you were gonna bench me since I couldn't even take care of myself at school."

Bruce closes his eyes and wraps his other arm around Dick, engulfing his son in a hug fully. He's not _good_ at this. He doesn't know what he should say, or whether it will be the right one. Or if he'll say something and it will drive them further apart.

Dick shouldn't be scared to come to him for things like this. He _shouldn't._

"I would have benched you," Bruce says after a moment, and Dick tenses. "But it wouldn't have been for you being pushed down the stairs. It would have been because you're hurt, and you need to be at your best when you're out there. Both of us do, remember?"

Dick nods a few times, his hold tightening slightly, and Bruce drops a kiss on top of his head. He wishes he were better at this. But he isn't, so he does what he can, rocking Dick back and forth slowly until Dick sniffles once, twice, and then he's shaking against Bruce's chest.

And holding Dick is all Bruce can do.


	6. Chapter 6

**40\. "You know, you can stay if you want to." Bruce and Dick!**

 **Thanks to Rose for donating! Again, you didn't leave a prompt, so I just chose something from my inbox.**

* * *

Dick screams.

He screams and screams and _screams_ , and it's all Bruce can do hold him down while Alfred cuts into Dick's thigh to remove the bullet. Dick's skin is coated with sweat, his cheeks are flushed with fever, and his eyes are screwed up in pain. Every second Dick screams is another second Bruce's heart twists and pulls.

Bruce doesn't know where the night went wrong. One minute he's on patrol with Tim, and the next, Oracle's on the line, shouting at Batman to get to Nightwing as fast as possible. Bruce got to the abandoned building Barbara had directed him to within seconds, only to find Dick puking his guts out, bleeding to death from a bullet wound in his leg—it'd nicked an artery, Bruce would later find out—and dosed up with a chemical compound Bruce couldn't identify without the help of his equipment in the Cave.

So he gets them all there fast, and Bruce thinks it was a good thing that Damian was on patrol with Cassandra right now, because there is no way in hell Bruce would let him see something like this.

"Hurry up, Tim," Bruce barks out, pushing back down on Dick's shoulders when he tries to buck Bruce off.

Bruce's heart hurts at the sight of it. He can't give Dick anything until Tim finishes the blood analysis, too afraid of what could happen if he mixed morphine with whatever's in Dick's system. Dick could fall asleep and never wake up, and Bruce isn't about to risk that.

But, they also can't wait on stitching up Dick's wound. He's bleeding. _Badly._ And the longer they wait, the riskier it will get. But Dick's thrashing and screaming and in _pain_ , and there's nothing Bruce can do but hold his torso still so Alfred can work.

And then Dick goes silent.

Bruce and Tim both freeze, Alfred keeps stitching.

"Dick?" Bruce asks, eyes on his son's scrunched up face. "Dick, can you hear me?"

Dick's mouth opens, but nothing comes out except for a choked sob. Bruce can barely breathe.

"What's wrong?" Tim calls out.

There's—something. In Tim's voice. Bruce doesn't like it, either, but unfortunately, he can only deal with one thing at a time, and Dick's silence, his tense body as Alfred finishes the last stitch on his leg and then starts on a graze on his arm—it has Bruce unable to look away.

"Dick," Bruce practically orders. "Look at me."

Dick doesn't look.

 _"Look at me."_

Dick's eye open, and they're clouded with a haze of pain and fever. Whatever's in his system in causing Dick agony, and probably damaging his immune system at the same time. His body isn't going to be able to fight it off on its own.

"You're going to be okay," Bruce says. It's true. It _has_ to be true. Dick doesn't respond. _"_ Dick. Dick! _Do you hear me."_

He's scared. _Terrified._ He's gone through this so many times he can't even count them all, but every time is still as agonizing as the last. Each tears another little piece of his heart, and he's afraid that in a year, maybe less, he'll have no more of his mutilated, twisted heart to give.

His son stares at him, haze still present, but he gives Bruce a nod.

And that's enough. Because if Dick is still fighting, they'll get through this, no matter how terrified Bruce is. He will never give up on his children. _Never._

Alfred stitches, Tim analyzes, and Bruce—well. Bruce sits by Dick's side, and he's not leaving.

* * *

It's hours later that Bruce finally is able to sit down and stare at Dick's unconscious form. They'd gotten an antidote to whatever was ravaging Dick's system—one of Ivy's poisons, and she'd had a fanatic with her, too. This time with a gun. Batman will have to follow up eventually.

But they'd administered the antidote, found a medication that wouldn't mix poorly with the chemicals still in Dick's system, and managed to fix Dick up enough that he wouldn't be in danger of bleeding out.

Bruce is exhausted from holding Dick down while he screamed himself hoarse, dealing with an upset Damian when he'd seen Dick laid up on a medical cot, and he's exhausted from _feeling._ He's staring down Dick—his _kid,_ because Dick may be an adult, but Bruce won't ever be able to stop seeing that nine-year-old boy swinging from the chandelier or sliding down the banister, a troublemaker grin plastered on his face—and his chest won't lose that tight metal band.

It feels like he can't breathe.

He wants to go, to remove himself from this situation. He wants a moment to forget that he'd done this all to himself. He'd taken in this kid and loved him, and it's his fault they're both in so much pain from this.

He's not good at this.

"You know," a voice says, and Bruce turns to look at Tim. There's a strange light in his son's eyes. "You can stay if you want to. I know Dick would probably like you here when he wakes up."

Bruce's lips thin. He and Tim are too similar, sometimes.

"You're right," Bruce says, but it isn't easy, and it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He looks back to Dick. He hasn't stirred, and it will probably a long time until he does. Tim Bruce could be doing hunting down Ivy and the fan with the gun. But— "I'll stay."

Tim nods once, sharply, and then he curls up on the chair next to Bruce. They don't talk, and at some point, Tim falls asleep, his head tilting until it's settled against Bruce's shoulder. Tim had been scared for Dick, Bruce knows, and Bruce thinks if he could, he would sigh and wonder why he can't seem to protect his children.

But he can't. He's already been down that road, and it took a lot to pull him away from it. For now, he sits at his eldest's bedside while his second youngest dozes on his shoulder, and he hopes that there won't be a next time.

Except—there's always a next time, and no matter what Bruce does, he can never seem to prevent it.


	7. Chapter 7

**anonymous asked: "I'm so proud of you" bruce and dick**

 **Thanks to MJ for donating! Here's your Bruce and Dick kidnapped content!**

* * *

A soft call of his name is the first thing that Dick registers through the haze fogging up his brain. He's at half-processing speed right now, and it takes him an uncomfortably long time to even recognize the voice he should know in his sleep. Not enough Batman, but not enough charm to be Brucie Wayne. So that just leaves plain old—

"Bruce?" Dick groans. His head is hanging, and he doesn't have enough energy to do anything but roll it sort of in the direction from where he thinks his name had been called. Maybe. It's hard to remember anything. Or move. Or think.

"Can you open your eyes for me, chum?"

Dick hums, grimacing when he peels his eyelids open.

The world around him is a hazy, blurry mess. Too bright, too dark. Too much, but not enough. He doesn't recognize anything past fuzzy shapes and dark colors, and the effort of keeping his eyes open leaves him absolutely drained. They slip closed again, and he lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Dick," Bruce calls again, more urgent than the first time.

He sounds close. Close enough that he would have seen Dick's attempt to do as he asked. Dick wonders if he's going to be asked to open his eyes again, and if he's going to have to keep them open. He hates to admit it, but he's too tired. Too exhausted. If Bruce asks, though, Dick's going to do it. Whether he wants to or not. It's been beat into him for the past seven years.

"Dick," Bruce says. "I need you to look at me."

And there it is. Dick tries to fight.

"I'm tired," he croaks, and something bubbles up in his chest. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He doesn't want to look at Bruce. He wants to sleep. "Bruce, I'm _really_ tired."

"You were hit in the head, Dick," Bruce tells him, and there's a softness to his voice that Dick remembers from his childhood.

When he was nine, freshly orphaned and nightmare-ridden, he'd always seemed to find his way to Bruce's room. Sobs hitching in his chest as he watched his parents fall again and again, and he'd thought _Bruce is Batman. Bruce will make this go away_ , and he'd slip under the covers of Bruce's bed. Bruce would wake up and curl around him, holding him and whispering reassurances in that deep, gentle voice until he fell asleep.

Better days, Dick thinks somewhat bitterly. Now, Dick's sixteen and it's hard to go to Bruce for anything anymore. Dick's not stupid. He knows Bruce is doing it on purpose. Pushing him away. Dick doesn't know why, and he's angry enough that he pushes back, until the words turn to silence.

There are rarely good days, now.

"Stay with me, Dick," Bruce says.

Dick makes a face. "I didn't go anywhere," he murmurs.

"You did," Bruce tells him.

There's a pause, and Dick lets the silence wash over him a moment, feeling that haze come back to try and claim his brain again. The haze is much more welcome to consume him than the pain of the real world. He's tired, and he can't remember where he is or how he even got here, or why there's—

Is there rope binding his hands behind his back?

Dick's eyes slam open, and his breath hitches in his chest. He takes in the dark surroundings of the warehouse around him. Things are still blurry and hazy, and his brain's a gigantic mess, but he can make out the empty space in front of him. The people-shaped blurs across it. The mound of something (boxes?) to his right. Bruce to his left, in much the same position as he is.

He can't make out Bruce's face, no matter how much he blinks—can't get his eyes to focus on much of anything—but he thinks that Bruce is looking at him a little wary.

That's when Dick's training kicks in. He forces himself to calm down. To take an actual breath. He closes his eyes and lets his chin drop back to his chest. He doesn't think anyone's around them, but there are definitely people—they're captors, probably—across the room, and Dick doesn't want them to realize he's awake quite yet.

Unless they already saw him freak out. Then there's probably no point. But he's going to go the optimistic route and hope that they hadn't. Plus, Bruce hasn't said anything about them. He's probably in the clear to keep pretending.

"Are you alright?" Bruce asks, that soft tone back.

Dick swallows, and he assesses himself. His hands are tied behind his back. His head is throbbing, making his thoughts fuzzy, and he can barely keep his eyes open. Everything's aching, but there's nothing that particularly stands out, so he's probably in the clear.

"Concussion," Dick murmurs. "I think. Besides that, bruises."

"Stay awake," Bruce reminds him. "Help's on the way."

Dick wants to laugh bitterly. _What_ help? Batman and Robin are sitting here, in a warehouse, hands tied behind their backs. Figuratively _and_ literally. The Justice League is off world, too—and even if they weren't, they probably couldn't get away with saving Bruce and Dick out of the blue without good reason—and Barbara's not in town, either. At some college camp thing she's been raving about for a good month.

Their only help would be the police, but would the GCPD even be able to—

"FREEZE!" a familiar voice shouts, and Dick sags even further. Commissioner Gordon. The GCPD. Cops. There's a scuffle that Dick can't bother to pay attention to, and he just lets himself go for a few seconds.

He realizes now that he'd been preparing himself to figure out a plan to get him and Bruce out of here. He'd been thinking that there'd been no other option but to save themselves, and some part of Dick feels so _bitter_ about it. When had he stopped trusting the cops to do their jobs?

Maybe. Maybe, he needs to put a little more trust into the cops. Maybe.

Commissioner Gordon's always been someone who he's trusted without question, never doubting that the man was trying his best to work with the hand he'd been dealt with, and there's no way that the man would ever leave Bruce and Dick to the wolves, right?

And there are good cops, too. Officers he's worked and chatted with. Ones that send him small smiles every time he cracks a joke or tries to banter with the dark stone wall that's Batman.

When had he become so _jaded_ , that he didn't trust anyone else to come for them? Is it a product of spending too much time with Bruce, or is it because he's spent the past few months _arguing_ with Bruce. He's not sure if he knows, and he doesn't like the picture either paints.

"Dick?" Bruce says. His name again. It takes another moment to register, but then Dick jerks his head up, pries his eyes open to see Bruce's worried expression swimming in front of his face. Someone's undone the ropes on both of them, and Bruce is crouching in front of him. There's blood on his face, and he looks so— _scared._ He looks scared. "You with me, chum?"

"Yeah," Dick breathes. He doesn't dare nod. "Yeah, I'm with you."

Bruce nods, something that almost looks like relief on his face. Except, that's too many emotions for Bruce Wayne. For Batman. He's got like, three, and Dick's pretty sure relief's not one of them. Hasn't been for a long time.

"I'm proud of you," Bruce tells him, and it's quiet.

Dick's lips twist into a grimace. "I didn't do anything. The police saved us."

"You opened your eyes." Bruce's hand hesitates just a beat, and then he's pushing Dick's hair away from his forehead. "You stayed awake."

"Barely."

"You still did it."

Dick hums, and he lets himself tilt forward, burying his nose into Bruce's shirt. His hands are free, though he has no recollection of that actually happening. But he brings them up, twisting his fingers into Bruce's shirt as Bruce hesitantly pulls him in for a hug.

They're both so bad at this, now. That easiness from the early years is gone, replaced with the tension from months of arguing, but as Dick lets himself melt into his dad's arms, everything from just hours comes rushing back—

 _A gala. One where Dick's expected to play the Lucky Charity Case. They're stormed by gunmen. Gordon's furious face. Gunmen surrounding Bruce, aiming a gun at his temple. Dick's heart leaps into his throat, and he wants to slip away, thinking maybe he could come back as Robin and do something other than stand here uselessly, but one of the gunmen sees him when he tries to duck away, and he's told to—_

 _"Stop! Or I blow daddy's brains out, brat!"_

 _Bruce's eyes are hard, gaze flicking to the door closest to Dick. A clear sign to run and not worry about Bruce. Like hell. Dick doesn't go anywhere._

 _Dick only has a second to register the butt of the gun swinging at him before his world explodes with pain. He hears distant shouting and there's this nauseating feeling of being carried over someone's shoulders._

 _Bruce's voice breaks through his haze, just for a moment. Just a burst, of "Don't you dare touch my son!" and then the dark trickles in, and Dick knows no more._

"Are you okay?" Dick wonders, his voice barely a whisper as he murmurs into Bruce's shirt. He's not even sure his words were actually audible, but Bruce seems to understand, anyways.

"Am _I_ okay?" Bruce asks, something like disbelief in his voice. It's hard to tell when Dick still has trouble focusing on anything but the way his heart is hammering in his chest and his breath won't stay steady no matter how many breathing techniques he tries.

"Bruce," Dick pleads, grip on the fabric tightening. "Please."

Bruce is quiet a moment, and then, "I'm fine. The paramedics are here to look at you."

Dick feels a stab of irritation. He doesn't want paramedics. He wants—well. He wants to not move. He wants to sleep. He wants him and Bruce to stop fighting all the damn time. He wants to have one patrol where Bruce doesn't give him a stupid order that makes it seem like Dick's not trustworthy.

"Fuck the paramedics," Dick decides.

 _"Dick,"_ Bruce is quick to reprimand, but Dick cuts him off before Bruce can go anywhere.

"I just wanna go home," Dick tells him, letting go of the front of Bruce's shirt to snake his arms around Bruce's back and shove himself into a proper hug. Bruce, luckily, doesn't let go. He just sighs. "Bruce, please. Just let me go home."

"You're hurt, Dick." There's a frown in Bruce's voice.

 _"Please,"_ Dick says. His head is so messed up and he has about zero control over his emotions, and if this goes on any longer, Dick's afraid he's going to start crying. As it is, he's practically blubbering already. "Alfred can. I just. Please. _Bruce."_

Bruce's hold tightens, one hand going to gently cup the back of Dick's head. "Just let them look you over, Dick," Bruce says, and. There's a hitch to his breath. A weakness to it that no one but maybe Alfred and Clark would pick up on. "You're hurt."

Scared, Dick's brain reminds him. Bruce had looked scared. Probably still is. Dick swallows past a lump in his throat, and he knows that the only way Bruce is going to be okay is if Dick agrees. He doesn't want to, everything in him wanting to rebel against Bruce again and again until Bruce stops suffocating him and starts trusting him, but he also loves Bruce like a dad. Enough that he can hardly stand to hear that tremble, even concussed as he is.

"Okay," Dick finally relents. "But you have to stay with me. And then we go home."

Bruce's fingers run through his hair again, and Dick can feel his movements when he nods. "Paramedics, and then we go home," Bruce agrees.


End file.
